“Driving Dirge”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Creative impulses know no discipline of time.

Inspiration may appear at any moment, whether opportune or in conflict with regular routines or constrictions of schedule. But a frequent cerebral plane upon which new ideas have frequently arrived, for this writer, is one not distinct or hallowed in print. Simply stated, these connections to the subconscious often occur as I am driving. In particular, after work or when headed home at sunset.

It has long been a dependable phenomenon.

I recall once composing song lyrics while driving west, from Ithaca, New York to the home of a friend near Corning. That short jaunt on the roadway offered enough time to hum out a tune as I piloted my 1973 Volkswagen Beetle. Then, words began to dive from my lips. I rapped out lines in succession, repeating them to remember more clearly. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. Hearing the composition in full-blown glory, in my head. Upon arriving at my destination, I scribbled out the lyrics on a brown, grocery bag.

Months later, this asphalt vision yielded a recording session and multiple versions of my song.

Over the years, I have continued to have spells of creative fire while at the wheel. Staccato poetry, cheerful hymns, ballads of sorrow. All entering my cranial sphere, and exiting again, without much notice. Occasionally, I captured fragments from these along the way. Once, while using four-wheel-drive to get home from a late, winter meal at Waffle House in Austinburg, I busted out a spoken-word rhyme, delivered with only my pocketed phone as a witness:

“I’m traveling in the darkness

Endless waves

Endless waves of darkness

I’m on the journey

Others have gone before me

Chris and John, Paul and Mark

They’re all gone

But here I travel

(On) this road late at night

After midnight

I look up in the road

Just ahead

And I can see my reward

Or punishment

This is my destination...”

The yield was a visual contrast of headlights and snow, with a rapped-out, verbal rhythm of consciousness streamed over the glow of dashboard lights.

Yesterday, while returning home from a holiday visit to Hambden, I inhaled yet another breath of roadgoing vapors, this time from the muggy air of summer. My fingers were dancing on the steering wheel, as before. My jaw locked in a Blues pose, as an oath spat forth from deep in my belly:

“The end of days is near

I am no longer here

I’m going away

Going away.”

My time on the pavement was brief. So, only a few minutes passed before I had stopped at Dollar General on the Thompson square for dog treats and bread. At home, I found cold comfort from Labatt Blue in my refrigerator. With the sunset came fireworks, eager to explode in celebration.

But then, it was 2:30 a. m. and I had awakened with purpose. While coffee brewed, I sat in my living room chair and began to tap out useful bits of text on my phone:

“The end of days

Has come to pass

Gonna taste the poison

Gonna break the glass

I’m going away

Going away

Spit hate loneliness

Crouch in the dirt

God help me Jesus

I’m doubled with hurt

I’m going away

Going away

The end of time

Is my reward

Lost like a loser

Tied to a board

I’m going away

Going away

Talk shit and happy

That’s been my plan

But the hour is passing

I am a dead man

I’m going away

Going away

Like him before me

Stretched out on a bed

The vastness of eternity

Filling my head

\I’m going away

Going away

Spitfire snakeskin

I wear as my shroud

The last breath of life

Gonna take it loud

I’m going away

Going away

Busted teeth smiling

Look like a fool

Stiff on the bedsheets

Gone gray with drool

I’m going away

Going away

-

Last taste of what God gave me

Agog at the gates

Now I’m set free

I’m set free

Last taste of mud and the rain

Bent in a half shape

But free from the pain

Free from pain

-

Last will and testament

Prayer said in haste

Look away friends

My life’s gone to waste

I’m going away

Going away

Last minute before midnight

Eyes gone empty

Blank and burned out

I’m drowning in feces

I’m going away

Going away

Thank you, thank you

My ration consumed

The end of days

Away to the tomb

I’m going away

Going away.”

The surge of imagination ran through my fingers like a flickering voltage. But before I could focus, it had vanished. I scrolled through the verses entered in my ‘Notes’ app. Just as in yonder days, my connection to the ether had come while in motion. But this time, a period of fermentation had taken place before receiving my revelation. Slumber had aged the wine of song.

Coffee and my cell phone had set it loose.

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